


Part II: Blood

by lockedin221b



Series: The Way Blood Flows [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Homosexuality, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Master/Slave, Near Death, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Touching, Nudity, Original Character(s), PTSD John, Partial Nudity, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slavery, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Vaginal Sex, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:21:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>c. 1800</p><p>John Watson is taken captive after he and his fellow Hunters fall victim to an unexpected attack. John is taken from the rest of his captured comrades and thrust into the life of a pet to a vampire estranged from his affluent vampiric roots: Sherlock. His only purpose is to provide sustenance for this eccentric vampire. He's not ready to give up on his life, though, so he bides his time until opportunity arises. In the interim, however, he finds himself being drawn further into the invisible lives of the inhuman creatures he is now surrounded by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [This gorgeous (nsfw) art](http://teabeforewar.tumblr.com/post/17660886262/and-now-that-valentines-day-is-over-heres-some) is the original inspiration for TWBF.
> 
> This is the second of three parts.
> 
> This story is more or less a crossover with one of my own worlds. So there's some mythos and lore tossed in from those stories. I try to give enough explanation without going into total full-blown exposition. But there are some things that won't make sense right off the bat, so I ask you to bear with me on that.
> 
> And, seeing as this is a fanfic, the usual caution that it is unrevised.
> 
> **PSA: There will be depictions of gore/violence/mutilation, non-con touching, attempted rape, and mentions of rape. There will be no full on n/c sexual acts beyond this.**

For days John did little but eat and sleep. When he couldn’t sleep, he remained holed up in his room. When John started missing meals, Mrs. Hudson or Greg would bring them to him. Sherlock came of his own accord every three days. He either didn’t notice John’s condition or didn’t care. When John stopped eating, Molly was called upon.

She came into his room and sat on the edge of his bed beside him. “Alright there, John?”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at her. She felt his brow for fever and went back into the hall, though without closing the door entirely.

“What happened?” she whispered to Greg.

“He broke him.”

“What?” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Does Mycroft know?”

“Not yet.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, Greg.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped. “But what should we have expected? We wanted him to keep one, didn’t we?”

“How long has it been? Since…”

“A week.”

“And he’s fed since then?”

“Yes.”

“Has John said anything?”

“No.”

“And Sherlock?”

“Certainly not to me.”

“Perhaps I should-”

Greg snatched her arm. “No. He’s working, Molly. Even you would be in danger right now.”

“Of course. I should get back. Do you want me to tell Mycroft?”

“No, but do it anyway.” He paused, looking at John’s door. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Keep trying to get him to eat. If he gets worse, let me know at once.”

“Sorry to drag you out here.”

“Don’t be. It gives me a break from listening to them strategise all night. I just wish it had been a pleasanter getaway.”

“Safe travels.” After Molly left, Greg looked in on John and asked if he wanted anything to eat. John, of course, said nothing.

 

Two nights after Molly visited, John did come down with fever. His condition deteriorated rapidly, and twenty-four hours after the fever first spiked, he was in such bad shape he couldn’t even get out of bed to relieve himself.

When Sherlock showed up that night, Mrs. Hudson blocked his way. “He’s ill.”

“With what?” Sherlock snapped.

“Some sort of fever. Go find your supper elsewhere.”

Sherlock, surprisingly, gave no further argument.

Greg looked up from where he was holding a damp cloth to John’s brow. “I should-”

“Go. Molly will be here soon. I can manage for now.”

Greg nodded and went after Sherlock.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson sighed as she took up Greg’s seat beside John. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

Not an hour later, Molly arrived, and not alone. Mary was with her, and both women crowded into John’s small room.

“Mary, darling, what are you-” but Mrs. Hudson was cut off.

“I’m the better healer and you both know it. Molly has already agreed, as long as she takes over as soon as I get him to a point she can handle.”

“But using your strength like that—you know what it does to you.”

“Therefore, I expect you to have a very large supper ready for me, so I don’t accidentally feed on my brother’s pet.” She dropped her cloak on the end of John’s bed and rolled up her sleeves. “Alright, little one, let’s bring you back to us.”

She worked for hours, muttering spells and draining the sickness from John. When Molly finally put a hand on her shoulder, Mary looked as poorly as John, though he was looking far less like a corpse.

Molly took Mary’s seat, and Mary stumbled to the door. She paused to gaze at John, or maybe his neck.

“Go eat,” Molly said quietly. “Mrs. Hudson has something nice downstairs for you.”

Mary nodded and forced herself from the room.

By late morning, John was out of danger and sleeping soundly on clean linens. Molly and Mary were both spent. Mary set up in Sherlock’s room as usual, and Mrs. Hudson gave Molly her bed. Sherlock and Greg returned in silence around noon. For the rest of the day, the house was quiet.

 

When John woke up, his chest felt heavy and his head ached. His arms could barely lift the multitude of quilts off his chest, which is when he realised he was completely nude.

“Evening.”

He looked up and saw a familiar face by the window. “Mary?” he croaked.

She came over to him and poured a cup of water from the pitcher beside the bed. “Drink.” She helped him sit up while he downed the cup.

“I’m, ehm, naked.”

Mary clicked her teeth. “Yes, you are.” She laughed at John’s flushed face. “Good to see colour in your face at least.” She retrieved a pair of drawers and a shirt from John’s chest and handed them to him. “Shall I turn around?” She whirled gracefully before forcing him to answer.

John struggled with the clothes, as if his body was still half asleep. When he was finally covered, he was exhausted anew and laid back on the bed. “Thanks.”

Mary turned back and sat on the chair beside his bed. “How do you feel?”

“Miserable. What happened?”

“You came down with a fever. A very horrible one. It took all Molly and I had to get you back from the edge.”

“I don’t remember.”

Mary sighed. “I’m not surprised. I think you gave up for a bit, John. Mind and body both. You just… gave up.”

“What do you mean?”

Mary’s brow knitted tightly. “What’s the last thing you remembered?”

John thought back. Then he remembered—what he had said to Sherlock, what Greg had said to him. He felt his skin go cold.

“Now now, no more of that.” Mary rested a hand on his arm. “We don’t want to go there again.”

With a shuddering breath, John said, “Why did you save me?”

“Oh, little one, don’t think that way.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because twenty-eight is no age to give up on living.”

“It might be for a human,” he spat. He turned his back to her and curled up.

“I think you’re stronger than that, John.”

“Don’t treat me like a child. The only reason you kept me alive was so your brother doesn’t die.”

“That isn’t true, John. If Sherlock’s pet were to die of illness, he would not be faulted for it.”

John scowled. “Of course.”

“I can’t make you believe me, but it’s the truth.” The chair scraped slightly and Mary appeared in his peripheral, standing beside the door. “I’m going to go ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea, but I imagine you’ll at least be pretending to sleep when I come back. So I’ll leave the tea by the window, alright?” She waited for a response she had to have known she wasn’t going to receive. Eventually, she left, not quite shutting the door completely.

 

Molly went back to the city; Mary did not. John spent most of the next two nights sleeping, but it seemed Mary was always there. She only ever woke him to eat and drink; otherwise, she let him sleep and even pretend to sleep as much as he like. It wasn’t until the following evening that John’s annoyance with her presence changed to appreciation.

Sherlock opened the door between their rooms without so much as a knock, which really wasn’t all that unusual.

“No,” Mary said without looking up. “He’s still recovering.”

“It’s been three days.”

“And he’s human. You know how fragile they are. Go find your supper elsewhere. But find it.”

With a silent snarl, Sherlock retreated.

“Thank you,” John mumbled.

“It’s not permanent.”

That day was the first he didn’t sleep through. He blamed it on the soup and tea Mary had forced him to finish off. Only after he relieved himself did he realise Mary was not in the room.

And the door to Sherlock’s room was ajar.

John peered through. The windows in here were even more heavily draped than John’s, but there was still enough faint light to make out Mary in the large bed. She looked so at peace, and even younger than she did awake. Her red hair, usually done up or at least held back, was splayed across the pillow.

It took a moment longer to register the figure sitting up beside her.

John retreated before he could figure out if Sherlock had seen him—or was even awake—and stumbled back into bed. For a while, he waited, breathing shallowly, half-expecting Sherlock to come finish him off once and for all. But nothing happened, and soon he was sleeping deeply once again.

 

The next evening, John made it out of his room. Over breakfast, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t stop doting over him, trying to give him extra helpings, insisting he had gotten too thin. Greg and Mary sat there smiling, refusing to intervene until Mary finally agreed he’d eaten enough and kindly shooed Mrs. Hudson away, insisting John needed his rest.

But John ventured to the library instead, Mary ever in his shadow. “I thought you weren’t allowed in the library with Sherlock around.”

“Only when he’s avoiding me. Had you been reading much?”

John shook his head. “We didn’t really get very far.”

“Didn’t we? Well, would you like to continue?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course. I’m not going to force you to become literate, John.”

He didn’t have anything better to do, though, so agreed. However, not an hour into the lesson, he was losing focus.

“You’re exhausted.”

He sat up. “I’m fine.”

“No. You nearly died, John. It’s going to take a while to recover from that.”

“How long?” He didn’t mean it to sound hopeful, but it did.

Mary gave him a pitying look, which only served to make John feel worse. “I can’t keep him away forever. Eventually, he’ll become impatient enough, and I won’t have a good reason to say no. And, eventually, I have to go back to my father’s. I have other obligations. Father’s not pleased with me being here so long as it is. He’d rather have Molly or someone else looking after you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, lots of reasons.” She smiled and closed the book that sat between them. “I think you need to rest for a bit. We’ll pick up again later.”

His body won the internal battle against his mind, so John gave in and followed Mary back to his room where he barely made it under the covers before falling asleep.

 

“How old is Greg?”

Mary looked up from the book she had been instructing John from. “Around eighty I think. Why?”

“Do you know how long he and your father have been, ehm…”

“Lovers?” Mary grinned. “A long time. Five or six decades.”

“And your father? How old is he?”

“Oh, two centuries and some odd years I think.”

“Had he changed anyone before Sherlock?”

Mary sat back in her chair. “Why all the questions suddenly?”

John answered honestly, “I didn’t think anyone would answer them before now. But I’m living here, aren’t I? I’m stuck in this place with these people. Shouldn’t I know at least something about them?”

“I suppose. I’m just not used to Sherlock’s pets asking about these things.”

“But you’ve never known a human to survive this long here, right?”

Mary grimaced. “That’s true.”

“What about before?”

“Before what?”

John chewed his lip. He had gone back and forth on whether or not to ask Mary what she knew about Sherlock’s last long-term pet, even though it was before her lifetime. “Do you know about any of the humans that were here before you were born?”

“No,” Mary chuckled. “Why would I?”

John shrugged. “So, Cicero?”

Mary gave him a suspicious look, but she let him off the hook and resumed the interrupted lesson.

 

Sherlock continued to show up every three nights, and Mary continued to turn him away. But even John could tell he would soon be recovered enough that Mary wouldn’t be able to say no. 

Ten days into John’s recovery, their usual lesson was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson. She handed a letter to Mary wearing a sorrowful look before leaving the library without a word.

John caught the H pressed into the wax before Mary broke the seal. “Mycroft?”

Mary scanned the letter, her expression hollow. “Yes and no.” She folded the letter back up and took a deep breath. “Come along, little one. You need to get dressed.” She stood and started out of the library.

“What? Why?” He hurried after her.

“You’ve been summoned.”

“Me?”

“I’m afraid so.” And, for a moment, she really did sound fearful.

Mary left John in his room and continued down the hall to Sherlock’s. John was left to dress in the warmest clothes he could dig out of his chest. He hadn’t had much need for them, as he was often in the warm library, kitchen, or covered in blankets in bed. But there was plenty of winter kit for him. Thick wool and furred clothes. He’d never worn something so rich and comfortable.

Before he had even finished dressing, the shouting above him started up. But it was short-lived, and John had barely pushed his feet into his boots before she was back to collect him.

“Come,” she commanded in a breathless voice, not even waiting for him at the door.

There was a carriage waiting for them in front of the house. It looked like the one in which he had arrived, almost half a year ago. And now he was leaving. Something told him it wasn’t for the best.

“Can’t you tell me what’s going on?” he said once they were on the main road. Mary hadn’t looked or spoken to him since receiving the letter, which she now held in one gloved fist.

“No,” she replied sharply. Then her features relaxed and she turned to him. “It’s not my place, little one. I’m only to courier you. You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.” He was cold, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“Of course you are.” Mary removed her cloak and handed it to him.

“What about you?”

“Me? Half-vampire.” She smiled. “I wear it for appearances more often than not.”

He thanked her quietly and pulled the heavy material over himself like a blanket. It was warm, and it smelled strangely pleasant. The combination, added to the steady pace of the carriage, soon put him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The sky was grey when Mary woke John and took back her cloak. “We’re nearly there.”

John stretched as much as the small space would allow. His shoulder was stiff, though that wasn’t unusual in the cold. Sleeping awkwardly had exacerbated it, though.

“Sore?”

“A bit.”

“Here.” Mary leaned forward and, without so much as a warning, stuck her hand under John’s shirt and rested it against his scarred shoulder. She muttered a few words in an unknown language and pulled away, all before John had the chance to even voice a complaint.

The pain in his shoulder had faded, though. “Thanks.”

“Minor. But you’re welcome.” She stared out at the streets with a frown. “You’ll need to be at your best.”

“Yesterday you said I still looked half dead.”

She didn’t respond.

John was overwhelmed with the familiar smells of the city, even on this side of the portal. It wasn’t his London, but it was still London. He felt a pang of homesickness for his friends, who were now likely months in the grave.

“We’re here,” Mary said quietly just before the carriage came to a stop. “I’m sorry, little one. I’m not allowed to give you any advice. They’ll know if I did.”

So he didn’t bother asking any of the multitude of questions whirring in his head. He followed her out of the carriage and quietly and up to the front stoop of Mycroft’s manor. He’d never been inside the main house before.

Mary knocked. A finely dressed servant answered and showed them through to a parlour. At least John thought it was a parlour. There was no fireplace or sofas, and the chairs were arranged oddly: half a dozen in a partial circle facing one thick cushion on the floor.

“I can’t stay,” Mary said apologetically. Then she looked pointedly at the cushion before walking out and closing the partitioned doors between them.

John walked over to the cushion. He was reminded of his first moments in Sherlock’s house, Anthea directing him to sit on the floor. Perhaps he’d been treated better than most humans in his position, allowed to eat with the household staff. Hell, Mycroft’s own lover sat with them at the lowly kitchen table. It was a peculiar arrangement; John had never realised it before now.

He lowered himself on the cushion and sat with his legs crossed. The doorman had taken his cloak, and now he was shivering slightly.

A pair of voices approached the door; one was definitely Mycroft’s. The other was a woman, but not Anthea. The door opened, and three people filtered in.

The first was—yes, John was sure—it was another human. He was dressed in clothes that, were it not for their simple cut, would put Mycroft’s wardrobe to shame. He had dirty blonde hair and a pair of bold blue eyes. He barely glanced at John, instead stepping to the side to make way for the next stranger.

She was most definitely a vampire. She had rich brown hair and wore what John assumed was the latest fashion—a stylish, slimmed down gown with a low square cut and a shawl. Her hair was down, however, tied back only so it didn’t fall across her face. Despite being the shortest person in the room, she commanded it. Mycroft was all but grovelling at her heel.

She took the centre seat, directly in front of John. Mycroft sat on her left. The human lowered himself to the floor on her right and lounged against the woman’s legs. He watched John with a cold expression.

It made John furious and nauseous.

“So,” the woman said, measuring John up with a single look. “You’re to replace our Victor.”

John didn’t speak.

“Stand up then.”

He did so, feeling exposed despite the winter layers he wore.

“Kieran.”

The human stood and walked over to John. First he circled him, hands clasped behind his back. Then he lifted John’s arm, examined his hand, circled and did the same with the other.

John tried not to wince at the ache in his shoulder, but it didn’t go amiss.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Apparently she wasn’t asking Mycroft, who looked on the verge or responding. Kieran pulled back John’s coat and shirt with a violent tug that nearly knocked John to the floor. “Scarring, Master.” His voice was smooth and perfectly subservient, despite the superiority and disgust he looked at John with while his back was turned to the vampires.

John wanted to punch him.

The woman huffed. “Leave it to your Sherlock to choose something damaged. Carry on, pet.”

Kieran grabbed John’s chin and examined his eyes, then forced his mouth open to look in there as well. Lastly, he ran a quick hand through his hair. “Dehydrated.”

“As I informed you earlier,” Mycroft intercepted, “he’s recovering from a severe illness.”

“Damaged and weak,” the woman sighed. “That will do, Kieran.”

He returned readily to her side.

The woman leaned forward. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’ve got a good guess.”

She smiled. It was thin and chilling. “Guess then.”

“Eliza Holm.”

“Well, at least he’s not thick. Victor was a little thick, wasn’t he?” She didn’t seem to expect an answer as she stood up. Mycroft jumped to his feet beside her. “Alright, Mycroft dear. I’d like to see how that daughter of yours is fairing. I expect nothing less than what you’ve written…”

Eliza’s voice grew muffled as Kieran closed the door behind her. He remained in the room.

John sat back down on the cushion.

Kieran turned and gave him a smile that turned John’s insides cold. “You weren’t given permission to sit.”

John glared at him. “And you’d be the one to give it, yeah?”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

“No, and I don’t really much care.”

Kieran ambled over to John with all the grace of a snake. “I’m Eliza’s pet. The only pet she’s ever had in over four centuries. Do you know what that makes me?”

“Disgusting?”

He stood over John, still wearing that smile. “Your superior. So stand.”

“No.”

“Oh, so you do have some fire in you?”

“More than you know.”

“Stand!”

“Piss off.”

“Do you know easy it would be for me to have you killed?”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Three words,” Kieran said in a low voice, holding up three fingers. “That's all it would take.” With each of the following words, he folded one finger down. “He. Attacked. Me.”

“You're repulsive.”

“Am I now?”

“You actually like being Eliza's dog, don't you?”

Kieran grinned. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Oh, I don't know, loss of personal freedom?”

“I have so much freedom, though. I am the singular pet for the Valden. I rank higher than most of these idiots.” He gestured out—to Mycroft, the house, the city—John wasn't sure. “I can come and go as a please.”

“Unless Eliza whistles.”

“Oh, but how she whistles.” Kieran chuckled.

“I'm going to be sick.”

“You should embrace it, John. You could have so much if you only embraced it.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Kieran squatted in front of him. “Did you know, she killed her lover of seventy years because he was jealous of me? That's how powerful we can be, John! A loyal pet can remain by their master's side when all other drivelling subjects are dismissed. I probably know more about the politics of this world than Mycroft. About the war-”

“What war?”

Kieran blinked in surprised. “Goodness, you really are kept in a hole.”

“Who's the war between?”

“Who do you think, fool?”

“If I knew,” John said, grinding his teeth. “I wouldn't be asking.”

“Vampires and werewolves of course.”

“That's not a war. That's an occasionally violent stagnancy.”

“Oh, that's going to change very- Well, look at you. Maybe you're not such a fool after all.” Kieran leaned forward, bracing his weight on one hand. “Pretty and smart. I can see why that idiot might overlook your defects. Or is there something else you're hiding from us?” With a vicious grin, he reached out and pressed a cupped hand up against John's groin.

John shouted and tumbled back in surprise. But Kieran was on him almost as quick as any demon. He covered John's mouth and pressed the knuckles of a fist into John's bad shoulder.

“Sh, sh. We wouldn't want to disturb our Masters.”

The more Kieran's knuckles dug into John's shoulder, the more his eyes water. But he kept glaring at Kieran through the searing pain.

Kieran's eyes suddenly lit with glee. “My, my. He hasn't even taken you, has he?”

“That will do, Kieran.”

He took his time releasing John and climbing off of him. When he finally got to his feet, Eliza was standing behind him. She rested a hand on his shoulder.

John didn't move. He kept his eyes on Kieran, glowering and unwavering.

“If it becomes problematic, I expect you to inform me at once, Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

“I won't have another Victor incident.”

“Nor would I.”

Eliza directed Kieran away and they disappeared through the partitioned door.

Mycroft stood just beyond the chairs. His expression was oddly mixed. He gazed down at John, almost apologetic, but with an overlying annoyance. “You will remain here today and return to Sherlock in the evening.”

He left John to one of the staff, who led him back out of the manor and to the side building where he had first stayed. It might have even been the same room. John didn't look that closely. He was tired and shaking and only wanted to sleep, but, every time he closed his eyes, Kieran's would appear.

 

He wasn't in his bed or his room, but still he woke to find Mary guarding him. He rolled over so his back was to her, trying to ignore the ache in his shoulder.

“John?”

“Leave me alone.”

“I'm so sorry. I didn't know-”

“Shut up.” John turned over and sat up. “Stop acting like you don't know what's going on. Stop pretending you don't know I'm Sherlock's slave. His living, breathing, thinking meal.”

“I've been trying to-”

“What? To what? Teach me to read? Teach the dog a few tricks?”

“That's not-”

“Well I'm done being the trick pony. I'm done with you monsters.”

“John.” She spoke quietly, brow creased. “What are you saying?”

John pulled the chain from under his shirt and over his head. “I mean I'd rather risk getting eaten alive then keep living like this.” He balled up the chain and chucked it across the room.

“You don't know what you're saying.” Mary picked up the chain. “You're still sick.”

“Good. Maybe I'll freeze to death before one of you beasts gets to me.” He shoved his feet into his boots and started for the door.

Mary blocked his path. “Please, John. Think about what you're about to do.”

“I was promised no one would keep me from leaving, if that's what I chose to do. I'm choosing.”

Her shoulders slumped and she stepped aside.

 

It was the daytime that let John get out of the city without being mauled, but it would be the cold that killed him after all. His teeth hurt from chattering so badly, his hands and feet were numb, and he didn't care. He honest to goodness didn't care that he was dying.

But standing still wasn't an option. If he was going to die, he wanted it to be by nature and not by his former captors. He wondered why it had taken him so long to make this decision.

When night came on and what little warmth the sun had provided was gone, he finally collapsed. He didn't know where he was or how far from London or even what direction he had gone. He had simply walked.

And now he could be done. It was a peaceful thought.

A thought interrupted by a voice. “Well, well. What have we here, Seb?”

“Human,” came a gruff response.

“Oh, don't be so obvious. Can't you smell it? Ah, yes! What a scent. It reeks of bloodsuckers.”

“Lost pet?”

“Or a runaway perhaps?”

John wanted them to be quiet. He just wanted to sleep.

“Do you think they're looking for it?”

“Can't be sure.”

“Pick him up. Let's find out.”

A pair of powerful arms began lifting John. Instinct kicked in and he began to fight.

“Now, now, little pet. Don't be afraid. Oh, knock him out already, would you? It's pathetic.” A fist collided with his head, and he got his wish: he slept.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up warm. Warmer than he'd ever been. He was in a nest of furs, surrounded below and above by them. He wanted to go back to sleep, despite the mild throbbing in his head. He'd been dreaming of something nice...

“Wakey wakey, little pet.”

“Don't call me that,” he grumbled, turning onto his side. But things clicked into place and he really woke up.

He sat up, eyes darting about. He was in a room lit and warmed by a large fire. It took up an entire wall of the small chamber. Lounging in a thickly cushioned chair beside the hearth was a man John had never seen before. He was gangly, dressed in dark leathers and furs, but cleanly shaven and trimmed. He wore a smile that suggested he was laughing at some joke only he knew the ending to.

“Where am I?”

“Safe, for the moment. What's your name, human?”

John shivered despite the comfortable warmth surrounding him. “John.”

“Such a simple name for something so... interesting.”

“Yours?”

“James.”

John gave him a wry grin. “And I've got the simple name?”

James chuckled. “Oh, I think I like you.”

“What are you then?”

“'What,' eh? So you are a lost little pet?”

“I'm not lost, and I'm no one's pet. I used to be a Hunter.”

James clicked his teeth excitedly. “A former Hunter turned to a bloodsucker's pet, and now he's run away! Oh, they must be absolutely furious with you.”

“I doubt it. I think they'd be angrier if they knew I was alive.” John glanced once more about the room, and then he took a closer look at the man. “And with a werewolf.”

James clapped his hands in a slow, dramatic fashion. “Well done, human.”

“My name is John.”

“You're quite bold, aren't you?”

“What's the worst that could happen? I piss you off and you kill me? If you hadn't noticed, I was perfectly content freezing to death before you came along.”

“So you were, so you were. But there are worse things than death in this world, John. You should learn that quickly, before you learn it the hard, long way.”

John swallowed hard, but he sat up straighter. “I just spent the last six months as nothing more than a sack of blood for a thing I really, really don't like. I know there are worse things than death.”

“And who is this 'thing' you were so unfortunate to serve?”

“Sherlock.”

At the name, James' entire expression lit up. “Oh, John, I think you and I are going to become very good friends.”

“You know him?”

“In a manner.” James uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I propose an exchange, John.”

John's gaze narrowed. “What sort of exchange?”

“You tell me what I want to know—everything I want to know—about that horrible thing that kept you enslaved for half a year. In return, when we're finished, I will personally escort you to your precious human world.”

The last thing John would have wanted to do would be align himself, even temporarily, with a werewolf. He wanted away from this world and these living nightmares. But he got the distinct feeling that James would not take no for an answer, and the prospect of really seeing his own world again, though he was sceptical of that promise really being kept, was too appealing. So he found himself saying yes, and the grin James gave him could only be accurately described as wolfish.

 

The main stipulation of their agreement was that John would not be permitted out of the room. James told him there were too many things a human ought not know if he planned to have a long life. John didn’t argue. He was provided with regular hot meals, and occasionally brought a tub with hot water in which to bathe. He was also provided clean, soft clothes. They weren’t very heavy, but the fire and furs kept him plenty warm.

At first, James asked John about his life as a Hunter. He listened while John told him about his parents being killed, about coming to the city and picked up by one particular pitying Hunter, and about being kept and fed when they found he could sew up injuries and clean wounds. But when John first mentioned that his Circle of Hunters had been obliterated, James’ interested dissolved on the spot.

“How did Sherlock get hold of you then?”

So John told him about being examined at Mycroft’s and subsequently shipped off to Sherlock.

“Ah, yes. Mycroft. Such a meddling fool, isn’t he?” Eventually he would stop their chats with a comment about how John looked tired and ought to rest, and he would leave the room and lock the door behind him. John had no desire to snoop, but being locked in made him uneasy.

With each successive session, James asked for more and more details about John’s time at Sherlock’s. He particularly wanted specifics on the vampire himself. He kept barraging John with questions John didn’t know the answer to, until finally John snapped under the pressure and shouted, “I don’t know! Alright? I don’t know anything about him. I only ever saw him when he came to feed. Came across him a couple times in the library and he either ignored me or mocked my inability to read. Until a few weeks ago, that was the extent of our interactions.”

James, who seemed to be growing impatient with John’s repetitive declarations of ignorance, leaned forward in his armchair by the fireplace. “What happened a few weeks ago?”

“He was working on something. I don’t know what. But I was told he would probably get distracted and forget to eat, and I had to make sure he ate or else he’d fall to the Hunger.”

“Oh yes,” James chuckled. “He has such a poor habit of that.”

“I went upstairs to his workshop or whatever it was. Greg followed me to keep Sherlock from ripping my throat out I suppose.”

“And what was he working on?” James pressed, craning forward.

“I’m not sure. I think he was dissecting an animal. A bear? Are there even bears around here?”

James’s expression turned dark, and his voice lowered a few notches. “What makes you say he was dissecting something?”

“I saw limbs. Huge furred limbs. On some sort of table. And Sherlock was wearing an apron and he was covered in blood.” Whatever John was going to follow up with immediately flew from his mind.

James had stood up and, with one swipe, knocked the armchair into the wall. The wood splintered on impact and fabric split. John shrank back into the furs.

But James seemed to have forgotten him altogether. He stormed out of the room, making a sound all too much like a howl, leaving the door wide open.

John considered it. He considered making an attempt to flee wherever he was. But he had no idea where in the building he was—probably underground, but by how far? And he had a feeling James would take it as a personal affront if John broke their pact. So John got up only to close the door, and then curled back in the furs. He suddenly felt cold again.

 

There was no way to tell time in the room. All John knew was it had long since passed his usual mealtime. His stomach was knotted with anxiety and hunger, and his throat was parched. The firewood eventually ran out as well, and John gave in and started burning pieces of the demolished chair.

He opened the door twice after James had left, but the corridor was dark and, John assumed, empty. As he stared into the darkness, he hoped it was empty.

He was not a survivor, not in these circumstances. He had the will, but not the means or knowhow. As the fire grew lower, he burrowed deeper into the furs. Soon, even that wouldn’t be enough to keep him from freezing.

At last, the cold and darkness enveloped the room, and John along with it.

 

When the door opened, John was in a state of semi-consciousness. He didn’t even fight the hands lifting him out of the warmth of the furs. He was dragged along the icy stone floor through shadows, and then lifted up stairs. Whatever little light there was, it blinded John and made his head throb.

He was taken out into the cold and thrown over a horse’s back. His body began to numb before the horse started to move. He fell off more than once, sometimes into soft snow, sometimes into icy slush, and other times onto roots and rocks. He was heaved back up every time.

When the horse stopped, he was dragged off and dropped in a cold, muddy patch of ground. “There you go, little pet. Your precious, miserable world.”

John couldn’t even lift his head to look at the undulating blackness that hovered in the air before him. He heard a laugh that chilled him in a way no weather could, and then the pounding of hooves growing faint.


	4. Chapter 4

The smell was all wrong. It smelled almost like his London, but dirtier, suffocating. He had to be north of the Thames.

John sat up. His body was stiff, but it was warm. Several wool blankets fell off his chest, and he gathered them up again. He was in a small room with a stove and little else. There was a window across the room looking out on the busy street.

It was day. John rose from the pallet bed, gathering the blankets around him, and walked on unsteady legs to the window. It was day. A grey, London day, and the streets were buzzing with life.

He was back. He might be north of the river, but it was his London.

Maybe there was an afterlife after all.

There was a tap at the door and he tried calling, but he had no voice. He rubbed his throat. Small price to pay, if this was reality and he was truly back in his own world.

“Alright, lad? Up and about?” An elderly man had opened the door, a man John recognised.

He dropped the blankets and ran up to him, clasping his arms. He inadvertently strained his voice in crying out, “Wiggins!”

“Careful there, Johnny boy. Lost your voice, eh? Come on, sit down.” He manoeuvred John back to the pallet and retrieved the blankets. “Cover up. Toby’ll be around with the water any moment now, and we’ll make a nice cup of tea to ease that throat of yours.”

“How?” John mouthed.

“Old thing like me? They figured I’d be pretty harmless on my own. Afraid they were right.”

John squeezed his hand.

“There, there, lad. You rest easy. Don’t know what hell you’ve been through the last seven months, but you’re safe now.”

And John believed him. James thought he was dead. Mary and Sherlock probably did as well by that point. No one was after him, and he was back in his own world, with his own kind. So much weight slid from his shoulders, the shock of it left him half asleep. Wiggins laid him down and covered him up, telling him to go to sleep, it was alright, he was safe.

 

He spent weeks with Wiggins and Toby. It was odd to think they were the three that were still alive out of their Circle. The three who were the weakest, that stayed behind on hunts, that did the cooking and cleaning and mending—of clothes or skin. And now they were the only survivors.

Wiggins and Toby had carved out a niche for themselves north of the river. Toby’s pickpocket skills had only grown since their fellow Hunters were brought down and dragged off. He managed enough to feed and house the two of them without calling too much attention to himself. Wiggins took on tailoring and mending jobs for the poorest folk, those who couldn’t afford their own needle and thread. Prices varied, and patchwork was often paid for through barter. It was a meagre living the two of them had, but it was a living—and one away from Hunters and demons.

“I’ll find work,” John said a couple days after his voice began to return. “I’m out of practice, but I’m sure I can find someone who’ll hire an extra pair of hands. I’ll look by the river. Workers are always getting themselves in messes down there. Especially this time of year.”

Wiggins nodded but told him to take his time in recovering. He never asked John about what had happened to him, and John realised he didn’t want to think about it anyway. He felt threadbare enough as it was without having to relive the last several months.

The following week, he found work with a small, dubious shipping company. He ran errands more than he set bones or stitched people up, but it was work. And, despite being wrung out by the end of each day, it was the most alive than he’d felt since summer.

Things went on like that for a month. There wasn’t much in the way of conversation with Wiggins or Toby, but their presence was comforting, and that’s all John wanted.

A month after he started his work in the shipyard, there was a stirring among the workers. They began whistling and calling to some poor unfortunate woman passing by. It didn’t take much to rile the men up, but John was always half-curious to see what poor girl or housewife had them going this time.

He looked up from the splint he was securing and suddenly regretted doing so. The woman was far from girl or housewife; she was far from human. Dressed in the finest of gowns, wrapped in a fur shawl, was Mary, ambling down the boardwalk like it was a garden path.

North of the river. Out of her territory.

“Oy, sapskull.” The foreman whacked John upside the back of his head. “You’re paid to fix my workers, not gawk at pretty ladies.”

John muttered an apology and finished wrapping the arm and wiped his hands on his breeches. “Needs to dry,” he said.

“Sure, mate,” the worker said dismissively and strolled off.

When John looked around, he couldn’t find Mary. He breathed a sigh of relief and went on to his next task.

 

John left the shipyard as tired as ever, only he didn’t make it to the one-room apartment he shared with Wiggins and Toby. He was corned three blocks away.

“I thought I smelled you.” Mary gazed at him with those green rings.

He was backed into a narrow alley that only grew narrower further in. He had nowhere to run, not that he could outrun a demon.

“So you survived.”

“Leave me alone.”

She frowned. “You aren’t scared of me, are you?” John wasn’t sure if she was curious or disappointed.

John took a chance and pushed past her. She was stunned for a moment, so he kept walking. It didn’t last long.

Marry grabbed his wrist. “I was sure you’d be frozen or eaten by now.”

“I nearly was each of those,” John snapped. He jerked his hand away, but Mary held fast. “You promised. If I made it back, I’d be left alone. I’m back here, now leave me alone. Let me just live.”

“Doing what? Patching up those rotten animals?”

John scowled. “That’s all we are to you, isn’t it? Animals, livestock. We’re cattle and you’re here to herd us, is that it?”

“No.”

“Then go away. You’re on the wrong side of the river anyway.”

Mary dropped his hand. “What do you know about that?”

“More than I ever wanted to.” He rubbed what was no doubt a forming bruise. “If I start walking away, are you going to keep following me?”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“I want to know how you are. I thought you were dead, John.”

“Why do you care?” he shouted.

Mary didn’t so much as blink. “Eliza’s back.”

John shuddered, not at the memory of Eliza, but of Kieran. “I have nothing to-”

“Sherlock- He did it, John. He let himself starve again and he’s killed those two maids. Nearly killed Greg as well this time.” She took a shuddering breath. “Father—Father nearly did it himself. When he saw Uncle, he went mad. I’d never seen him in such a state. It was terrible.”

John chewed his lip. “Greg’s alright though?”

Mary nodded. “Still recovering, but he will be.” She smiled at John, and that was when he noticed she was crying. “He’s not even angry at Sherlock. Said he can’t bring himself to be upset with a man out of his own wits. Father told him he was being foolish.”

“What about Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh, she’s fine. Not hurt I mean. She’s an awful mess, though. Spent hours trying to plead Sherlock’s case. But he won’t be swayed. It’s going to happen tomorrow night, at dusk.”

“Good,” John seethed.

Mary stepped back, staring wide-eyed. “You really hate him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because he saved your life!”

“No, Mycroft saved my life. And then promptly enslaved me and put me under the same roof as an insane vampire.”

“That’s not true. Uncle told me- Father had nothing to do with it! He only saved you because Sherlock asked him to.”

Now it was John’s turn to feel an invisible blow. “What?”

“He’d been watching you for weeks, months maybe. That’s why your Circle was attacked. You think we really felt threatened by those fools? They were nothing to us. But Sherlock said he had to have you. He told Mycroft that if he was going to get one last chance, it was going to be you.” Mary’s chest and shoulders were heaving, and she kept staring at John.

John took half a step back. “No.”

“It’s true.”

“Why? Why would he even notice me?”

“Because you’re brilliant, John!”

“I’m not- I’m nothing. Certainly not to your kind. I’m nothing.”

“You are far from nothing.” Mary approached him.

He wanted to turn and run, but his legs refused to move.

Mary cupped John’s cheek in her bare hand. It was cold, but not as cold as it ought to have been on a March evening. “You’re beautiful and intelligent and brave, and you’re unpredictable.”

“Un- unpredictable?”

“What do you think it’s like, living for a hundred years, having once been a brilliant man and now surviving as a brilliant immortal, seeing the same thing decade after decade? He gets bored, John. But you, you surprised him. I don’t know what he saw when you were with the Hunters, but I’ve seen it for myself since then. You are wonderfully unique, John. For an immortal man, that is rare find and one to be treasured.” She rubbed her thumb lightly across his cheek.

John pushed her hand away. “No. No. I won’t be kept.” He finally turned and started walking.

“He’s going to be killed, John!”

“I don’t care. I don’t care what happens to him!”

“What about Mrs. Hudson?”

John slowed down.

“She was never anything but kind to you. She’s old, John. Older than you think. She’s got nothing left if Sherlock is gone. And Greg? He saved your life. What do you think is going to happen to him? You think my mother will allow him and my father to live under the same roof as long as she’s around? Father won’t have a choice but to turn him out, all because the bitch gave him a child. She gave him me, and I hate her for it!”

John looked back at Mary. She stood in the middle of the street shaking, fists clenched at her sides. She was looking at John, and yet she wasn’t. She was angry, furious, but not at him. He walked back to her slowly. “How can you expect me to go back there?”

“Isn’t it better than this?” she pleaded. “Barely scraping enough together for a shoddy roof and hardly any food? Dealing with people who think nothing of you, day in and day out?

“As opposed to how you all think of me?” John scowled.

“But we don’t think that of you, John. Weren’t you listening?”

“You certainly treated me like nothing.” He didn’t let her make excuses. “I have friends here, Mary. People who care about me and who I care about. I’m done with your world. I’m done with your twisted traditions and your war and everything about you.” He turned, and then swivelled around. “And the worst part? You. For a moment back then, for just a brief moment, I thought I had misjudged your kind. Maybe you weren’t all monsters. But I was wrong. Monsters are exactly what you are, and you turn us into monsters if you don’t kill us first.” When he looked away this time, he didn’t look back. And Mary didn’t try to stop him.

 

John spent all of the following morning looking over his shoulder, but Mary never appeared. By noon, he began to relax. An hour before dark, the foreman called him over.

“Sir?” He expected one last errand before the light was gone.

“There’s some fancy gentleman wanting to speak to you. Now, I don’t know how you knows someone like this, but if he’s looking to hire, you damn well better make sure he brings his business to us. I don’t care if you have to lick the shit off his boots. Understand?”

John gave an uneasy nod, not sure he understood at all. At least not until he scanned the boardwalk for the individual in question.

“Get on then,” the foreman growled when he didn’t move. He gave him a shove in Sherlock’s direction.

“So this is what you’re doing with your freedom,” Sherlock mused with a distasteful look. It was the first time John had seen him dressed in the nice clothes that had hung in his wardrobe. They managed to suit him and look out of place on his frame at the same time.

“Don’t you have an execution soon?” John was uncomfortably aware of a phantom pain in his thighs.

“Yes, well, I managed to convince that putrid woman that my death could at least be useful, if it had to happen.”

“That’s nice,” John muttered, digging his fingers into his palms.

“There’s a particular house near here—in the other realm of course—containing a lone wolf who’s been giving us trouble for decades. He likes to hire himself out to the loftier packs, though he always manages to convince them Mycroft and I are the most strategic targets. Complete nonsense, of course.”

“I really don’t care.” He met Sherlock’s gaze when it alighted on him. “This is the most you’ve ever spoken to me, and I really, really don’t care what you have to say. Have fun on your suicide mission.”

“Mary asked the foreman how long you’d been working… here.” He gave another cursory look of disgust at the shipyard. “Hasn’t been more than a month. That leaves almost three full weeks between the night you left Mycroft’s and the day you began working here. What did you do during that time?”

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

Sherlock smiled thinly. “Call it a dying man’s wish.”

“Piss off.”

“Fine. I simply want to quench my unending curiosity.”

“If I tell you, will you leave?”

Sherlock gave a delicate nod.

“Some crazed werewolf took me in. Played real nice for a while. He wanted to know all about you. Then he went mad and all but starved me to death. He dumped me just outside a portal. If it hadn’t been for an old friend, I’d be dead.”

Sherlock’s brow pulled tight. “What was his name?”

“Who?”

“The dog,” he snapped.

“James.”

Sherlock was quiet, but it appeared his mind was racing. “I think you’ve just delayed my execution, John. Thank you.” He turned on his heel and hurried off through the crowd.

John let out a breath. Maybe he would finally be done with them.

“Well?” The foreman jabbed his arm. “Did you get his business or didn’t you?”

“He-” but John was too drained to think of a lie. “No.”

The foreman swore at him for a solid minute before turning him out. John couldn’t gather the energy to contest the declaration. He made his way slowly home and was still back before either Wiggins or Toby.

 

John told Wiggins he was going to give it a day for the foreman’s head to cool before asking for his job back. He would take care of things at home that day. He tried to keep himself busy, but his mind kept insolently wondering whether or not Sherlock was still alive. And, if he wasn’t, how Mary and the others were managing.

A few hours before dusk, the window was knocked in with incredible force. A grey blur tumbled to the ground before pouncing toward John.

John jumped out of the way, and the thing skidded to a halt next to the bed. It was a fox, only it was slightly larger than a normal fox and silver instead of red.

“Greg?” He lowered his hands. He’d only seen Greg in this form a handful of times, and almost always darting after Sherlock during his many furtive ventures from the house. 

“Where is he?” Greg’s voice snapped from the fox’s mouth.

“Who?”

“Sherlock! Where is he? He came to see you yesterday, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but-”

The fox grew and shifted and in a moment it was Greg. Greg with a sword. A sword now drawn and held pointed at John’s neck.

John backed into one of the stools. “I didn’t do anything! I just wanted him to leave.”

“You had to have done or said something.”

“Why?”

“He left a message saying his execution was going to have to be delayed. That’s all we know.”

“That’s all he told me.”

“After you said what?”

“Greg, sword. Please?”

He sheathed his sword, but he closed the gap between them as well.

John held up his hands. “He wanted to know what had happened to me after I left Mycroft’s. I told him, there was a werewolf who took me in, wanted to know about Sherlock, and then went berserk and left me to die.”

“And this mongrel’s name?”

“James.”

Greg stepped back with a hiss. “He had hold of you?”

“For a few weeks apparently.”

“And you told him about Sherlock?”

John squared his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Congratulations. You may have irreparably signed a warrant for Sherlock’s head twofold.”

“Why do any of you think I care?”

Greg shook his head. “Mary said you didn’t understand. You wouldn’t listen to her.”

“Sherlock wanted to keep me like an animal. Why should I be grateful for that?”

“He wanted to give you a better life!” Greg’s eyes were alight with equal parts anger and desperation. “He saw your potential and he wanted you somewhere it would actually thrive. Not in a hole stitching up men who were going to die the next night anyway because of an ignorant cause.”

“He sure as hell didn’t make it seem that way.”

“Of course not! He wanted you to fight for it. He wanted you to want it.”

“I never wanted anything to do with him. I didn’t even know him—I still don’t know him. And I don’t want to know him. If he’s as good as dead, then I’m happy to hear it.”

Greg dropped onto the pallet bed. He hung his head into his hands. “Did Moriarty really take you captive?”

“Who?”

“James. The werewolf.”

“Yes.” John pulled up one of the stools by the fire and sat in front of Greg. “Something’s between him and Sherlock, isn’t there?”

Greg nodded. “Victor.”

“Who is he? Victor. I keep hearing his name-”

“Was.” Greg looked up. “Victor died fifty years ago.”

“Right.”

“He was Sherlock’s first real pet. But he was more than that. And that means something. You never experienced what a pet really is to a vampire.”

“Kieran gave me a pretty good idea.”

Greg shook his head. “Kieran’s abhorrent. He isn’t the standard. A pet—a true pet—isn’t just a meal or a servant or whatever disgusting thing Kieran is to Eliza. A true pet is trusted. He or she lives and breathes alongside the vampire, sleeps and travels with them. There’s a bond between them, and little time is spent away from one another. That’s what Victor was to Sherlock, and more. They were never apart. Sherlock was actually happy, and nearly bearable to be around. He was still maddeningly brilliant and rude and everything that makes him him, but he could also be charming and decent. There was no question that, eventually, Sherlock was going to turn Victor. It was only a matter of time.”

“Turn him?”

“Yes. That’s the culmination of the purest pet-master bond. It hardly ever happens. They become so interwoven with one another, the vampire bequeaths their immortality. It’s rare, but it was going to happen with Victor. We all knew it. We were just waiting for Sherlock to take that step.”

“So what happened?”

“James Moriarty,” Greg said in a low growl. “He liked the idea of a pet, but not in the way vampires see it. He just wanted a toy, a thing to call his own and to twist and play with. That’s not what pets are supposed to be.”

“Are you sure? Because someone mentioned a ‘breaking in’ period that usually happens.”

“It’s not the best way to word it. But, usually, in the best scenarios, there is some willingness on the pet’s part to begin with.”

“You said Sherlock wanted me to want something better for myself.”

Greg nodded. “Moriarty didn’t want that. And Sherlock was a fool in his bliss. He paraded Victor around. Victor didn’t mind. He loved it. He was the right hand of the most brilliant vampire in the city, maybe the world. And Sherlock was his as much as he was Sherlock’s by that point. He could have asked for anything, and Sherlock would have given it to him without hesitation.” Greg brought his fists to his brow. “And Moriaty… He took Victor. No one expected it. Victor was free to come and go in the city as he pleased. No one would touch him. And he was going to be one of us soon anyway. He didn’t go out much without Sherlock, but on one damned night he did, Moriarty took him.”

John swallowed. He didn’t feel like he was getting quite enough air. “What happened?”

“He tried breaking him—the way you think of it. He tried every sort of kindness and ten times as much cruelty. He offered riches and power, his own changing bite. And when Victor refused, Moriarty’s true nature revealed itself. Victor suffered countless tortures, from brands to losing fingers to rape. But that idiot… he wouldn’t just give in. He wouldn’t just lie and save himself. He refused to tell Moriarty what he wanted to hear; he refused to call him Master.” Greg shuddered. “It was Sherlock who found the body. Moriarty meant for him to, we’re sure of it. He was so broken. We could barely get Victor away from him to bury properly. We gave him a vampire’s burial. Sherlock never healed, though. He closeted himself away for weeks, until-”

“The Hunger,” John finished, his voice hoarse.

“That was the first time. He killed five of Mycroft’s servants before we could settle him down. Most of us, if we do something like that, there’s no forgiveness. But even Eliza was inclined to turn a blind eye the first time. But, a month later, it happened again. Finally, Mycroft locked Sherlock away in that house. He tried everything to get Sherlock to see straight and stop being a fool about starving himself, but Sherlock would have none of it. He convinced himself he hated Mycroft, that Mycroft was partly to blame for everything. He kept saying, if only Mycroft hadn’t turned him.”

“Greg…” But John couldn’t even begin to think of something to say.

“Thing is, more than anyone else, Sherlock blames himself.” Greg looked up. “He thinks he’s responsible for Victor’s death, that if he had turned him sooner, Victor could have defended himself. Or at least Moriarty wouldn’t want him.”

After a moment of quiet between them, John said, “He’s going after Moriarty, isn’t he?”

Greg shook his head. “If it was pure vendetta, he would have gone through with last night’s intentions. That’s who he was going after.”

“On his suicide mission.” John grimaced. “Then where could he have gone?”

“I don’t know.” Greg leapt to his feet. “But I think I have an idea now.”

John jumped up and grabbed his shoddy coat. “I’m coming with you.”

Greg looked him over carefully. “That’s quite the turnaround.”

“I’m not saying I’m going back, but…” It was a turnaround, and John wasn’t quite sure why he was suddenly so desperate to help. If he’d been more honest with himself, he might have been able to admit it was Greg’s earnest attitude toward Sherlock, that he was truly convinced Sherlock wasn’t wholly twisted. And it was the thought of Greg and Mary and Mrs. Hudson—people who had actually shown him kindness—and how they would suffer in losing someone they truly cared about, even if John couldn’t understand it. He didn’t care about Sherlock’s life, but he did care about saving these people pain if he could. However, John wasn’t willing to be so honest with himself, let alone anyone else, and any surfacing of the truth was promptly reburied as he looked at Greg. “If I can help get this Moriarty bastard, I will.”

“Then let’s hurry.” He gave John a sincere smile and hurried him out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

They went to Mycroft's first, a stop John was far from keen on. But when Greg caught his uneasy gaze as they approached, he ushered John around the side of the building with a quiet, “Let's not tip Eliza off about your being here.”

They went to the servants' house instead, where they came across Mrs. Hudson. She gathered John up in her arms and hugged him close.

“He's not back,” Greg said on John's behalf. “He's only helping with the Moriarty situation.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson sniffed. “I'm just so grateful you're alive, dear.”

They worked next on finding John some warmer clothes. “Don't take this the wrong way,” John said as he plucked at the wool shirt he had just pulled on, “but these reek. And I’ve been working on the docks for the last month.”

“If Moriarty thinks you're dead, you don't want him picking up your scent. He doesn't like when things don't go his way.”

“People usually don't.”

“Not the same way Moriarty doesn't.” Greg tossed him a jacket and cloak. “I'll meet you by the stables. Try not to call too much attention to yourself.” And he left before John could get a word in.

After John finished dressing, Mrs. Hudson directed him to the stables, obviously relieved when John insisted she didn't have to lead him there herself. He stood rubbing himself warm until Greg showed up.

“I let Mary know I was borrowing a couple horses.” He smirked and led John into the stables. Greg dismissed the livery and tacked two horses himself. He gave John a sceptical look. “Have you ever ridden before?”

“Erm, not exactly.” He wasn’t keen on repeating his experience on the horse that had carried him, already half-dead, to the portal. He had had bruises for two weeks.

“Meaning?”

John didn’t tell Greg about that, though. Instead, he lied, “A neighbour led me around on his mule once when I was little.”

Greg chuckled. “Alright, I'll give you a leg up.” Once they were both mounted, he instructed, “Hold on with your legs as much as your hands. She'll follow this one once we're out on the road.”

“And until we're out on the road?”

“The most basic explanation I can give you is: kick to go, pull to stop, left rein to turn left, right rein to go right. They're well-trained. A child could ride them.”

They went slow out of the stables and down to the street. John thought it was taking them far too long to get out of the city. But once they did, Greg gave him little warning other than to hold on. He nudged his mount, made some sort of clicking noise, and the horse broke into a canter. John's followed, and he barely kept his seat. He tightened his legs as much as he could and gripped reins and saddle both, but for the rest of the ride he felt like he was teetering between the saddle and the very quickly moving ground beneath him.

John couldn’t see much in the dark beyond the shadow racing ahead of him. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when his horse began to slow down. He was certain it would collide with Greg’s until it came to a sudden stop.

“Where are we?” He thought he could hear water flowing just below. Something in the air, something stirred in with the cold, made him shiver.

“Reading. Or what would be Reading. There’d been a town here, but, while your Reading flourished, ours was rapidly abandoned.”

“Why?”

“Can’t you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

Greg gave a small huffed laugh. “This is why humans remained. They’re not as sensitive to the energy of the portals.”

“Portals?”

“There’s dozens, perhaps hundreds. No one is sure why there’s so many in this place, but there are. No one on this side felt comfortable living here. Little by little, they moved on, settled down elsewhere.”

“And this is where Sherlock is?”

“I think so.” He clicked his teeth again, and his horse began moving.

John gave his horse the slightest nudge with his heel. He was grateful when they kept to a walk.

“Bridge,” Greg called just as his horse hit the first stone. So there was running water. 

Large shapes began looming in the darkness. He could just make out partial façades. “Ruins?”

“An old priory.”

“A church? Do you believe in a god?”

“No, not personally. But many witches still have faith in their goddesses. A pair of sisters, the first witches. I don’t know much about it. Quiet now.”

John complied, wondering silently at the stone structure now beside him. If he reached out, he would be able to graze the stone exterior.

“Whoa!” Greg halted abruptly and leapt from his saddle, bolting forward.

John struggled out of his stirrups and slid gracelessly to the ground, which was a lot closer than it looked. He peered through the dark until he made out what he thought was Greg hunched over something and darted over. “Is it Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

The body in front of Greg was utterly still.

Slowly, John asked, “Did he freeze to death?”

“Freeze, yes. Not to death. It takes a lot longer for a vampire to die, even in these conditions. But he’s far gone. Waking him…” Greg didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he pulled a dagger from his boot, tugged off his glove, and slit his palm. He thrust his bleeding hand under Sherlock’s nose. “Come on, you idiot.”

After several silent moments passed, John took a deep breath. “Let me try.”

Greg turned to him. “I won’t ask it of you.”

“Thanks. That actually means something. Give me the knife.”

Greg wiped it on his sleeve and passed over. Biting his lip, John made a quick incision. He knelt beside Greg, who cradled the frozen man in his lap, and positioned his hand less than an inch from Sherlock’s face.

They waited in strained silence. With a sudden, painful sounding intake of breath, Sherlock’s eyes shot open. He latched onto John’s arm and pressed his mouth into the cut. Greg reached forward to pry Sherlock away, but John held up his free hand. “It’s alright. Just a bit.” But when John did say enough, and even tried pulling away, Sherlock dug his fingers deeper into his arm and the back of his hand and bit down on the palm. John shouted, and still Sherlock clung on.

“Oy, cork-brained.” Greg smacked him hard enough upside the side of the head that Sherlock broke contact with John and fell back.

John held his hand to his chest. Now he had a cut and a pair of punctures.

“Let me see,” Greg offered, holding out his own hand.

When John saw Greg’s cut was almost completely healed, with only a small mark remaining, he felt a surge of anger and, more sickeningly, envy.

“Don’t be a child,” Greg chided. “Let me see your hand.”

John laid his hand palm-up in Greg’s.

“That’s got to smart.”

“Thank you for the obvious,” John muttered.

“Right, let me check the bags for something to wrap that in.” He got to his feet and walked back toward the horses.

“Give it to me.”

John jumped. For the moment, he had been adamantly ignoring Sherlock. Now the vampire was sitting cross-legged next to him, staring at his hand.

“No.”

“I’m not going to feed, fool. Now give me your hand.”

“Why?”

Sherlock, as always, didn’t care to explain himself, and grew impatient. He grabbed John’s hand and tugged it toward him.

John started to shout for Greg, but he was startled into silence.

Sherlock had begun licking his injuries.

“Wha- What are you doing?”

But Sherlock released a low growl and continued. He was still at it, with John watching confused and fairly appalled, but largely stunned, when Greg returned.

“Greg,” John murmured. “Why is he licking my hand?”

“Huh.” That was all Greg said as he sat back down with them.

“Greg-”

But Sherlock suddenly stopped and pushed John’s hand away. 

“Give it here,” Greg said.

John slowly offered his hand to Greg, though he was still staring at Sherlock. “Why did you do that? Didn’t get enough?” he added with a sneer.

Sherlock looked at him unwaveringly. “How does your hand feel?”

“It bloody hurts, that’s how it feels. What do you think?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m-” John faltered. He looked down as Greg finished tying off the bandage. It was stiff and ached a bit, but the pain had definitely faded. He looked up at Greg. “What the hell did he just do?”

“Vampire saliva. It has minor healing properties. Usually it’s to keep the people they feed on from losing too much blood. Vampires typically feed from the artery in the neck, where it’s a bigger risk-”

But John stopped listening and turned on Sherlock. “You could have done this from the start? You just let me be in pain? If it wasn’t for the salve Molly had given me, I would still have-”

“What do you think is in the salve?” Sherlock snapped.

“Are you telling me that your spit-”

“Of course it wasn’t mine,” he scoffed.

John shuddered and spoke haltingly, “I am sick of each and every one of you.”

“Then you won’t help us?” Greg said quietly.

“I was an idiot to think I would actually be useful, let alone want to have anything more to do with you people.” John pushed himself up. “I’m done.”

“At least take the horse back to London.”

John was already walking away. “No. You said this place is full of portals. I’m sure I’ll manage to trip through one by morning.”

“People,” Sherlock called after him.

John stopped and turned. Even Greg looked confused. “What?”

Sherlock spoke steadily and without emotion, “That’s the first time you said we were people, not monsters or things.”

“Slip of the tongue.” John tugged his cloak tight around his shoulders. “Really, don’t think anything of it.”

“I don’t think it was.” Sherlock stood and began walking toward John.

John turned his back to him and continued moving. “Leave me alone.”

“Why were you going to help us? It seems a rather quick change of mind, considering you had no inclinations toward it when I spoke to you last.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’d like to know.”

John stamped his heel into the frozen ground and shouted, “Because of Victor, alright?” He whirled around. “Because Greg told me about Victor and it made me sick. Because as much as I hate you and I hated being your bloody pet and being stuck in that damned house, none of you did anything close to that horrible. Hell, Greg and Mary and Mrs. Hudson were halfway decent to me. The bastard deserves to die, and that would be a kindness to him. That’s why,” John huffed, his chest heaving. The cold air stung his throat. “That’s why for one moment of pure idiocy, I considered helping you. But James Moriarty thinks I’m dead. I’d be a fool to correct him on that. And you.” He shook his head, fists clenched at his sides. “I thought you’d be neck deep in trouble with the wolves by now. Instead you’re hiding away, frozen and halfway to a corpse? I knew you were a monster; I should’ve known you were a cowardly one.”

“John!” It was Greg’s voice that tried to stop him, but it only spurred John’s steps. But Greg shifted and darted forward on all fours, landing cleanly in John’s path and effectively stopping him. “John, he wasn’t hiding. He was being stupid, yes—” the silver fox looked briefly past John “—but he believed he was doing something.”

“What, sitting here and turning into a block of ice?”

Greg shifted again and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Do you remember what I told you this place used to be?”

“A priory for some gods.”

“The Sisters, the witches’ goddesses.”

“So? He’s not a witch.”

“You don’t have to be born to a faith to become a man of faith.”

“Him?” John barked incredulously. “A man of faith?”

“Faith in this world is far more tangible,” Sherlock said, walking up to them. “The priory that once stood here was renown, in this world, for its ability to tether with whatever plane of existence in which the Sisters dwell. Here, one could hope to find conference with them. While uncommon, it is not so rare as to be largely speculation.”

John stared at the ground, keeping his back to Sherlock, trying to comprehend, not the idea of actual deities, but of Sherlock looking to them for answers. “And did your bit of soul-searching get you anywhere?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, surprisingly light in tone. “So we will do things the corporeal way. Tooth, claw, sword, and pistol.”

“You and me,” Greg said. “John’s right. If James thinks he’s dead, it’s safer to leave it that way.”

John looked back up at Greg.

“Take the horse.”

“It’s Mycroft’s. Won’t he-”

“And I’m Mycroft’s lover. Have been for a bit now.” Greg smiled, no less sincere, but far less spirited. “I’ll appease him, don’t worry yourself about it.”

Sherlock cleared his throat behind them. “It might be more sensible for John to at least travel closer to the city before passing through. Appearing fully mounted in a quite populous market town, even at this hour, might cause a bit of a stir.”

John consented to the arrangement, but only just. He wanted verbal directions to the nearest portal as soon as they were in sight of the city. He had conflicted feelings about their slower pace, since Greg travelled as a fox alongside the horses. He wouldn’t have minded had it not been for the time he was going to have to spend in Sherlock’s company.

 

A couple hours into the trek, John was having trouble staying awake. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and now it was long past midnight and he was drained in mind as much as in body. He ached all over from the hard ride to the priory. Plus the blood he had stupidly given to Sherlock was taking its toll on him.

He saw Sherlock directing his horse closer to John’s, and John was perfectly set on ignoring him. At least until Sherlock said, “You don’t look well.”

“You care,” John muttered.

“I doubt you would believe me if I said I did.”

“Correct.”

Sherlock reached forward and pulled on John’s reins, stopping their horses in tandem. “Lestrade, find something for John to eat before he collapses and falls out of his saddle.”

“I’m fine,” John snapped, tugging his reins. He was no match for a vampire, exhausted state or not.

“Lestrade.”

The fox slowly slipped away.

“What’s he going to find out here anyway?” John grumbled.

“You would be surprised at how resourceful we can be.”

John was too damned tired to come up with a retort, so he slumped in his saddle and gave his eyes a chance to rest. They had been straining far too much in the dark—

He started with a shout at a hand gripping his shoulder. His bad shoulder. “Let go,” he snapped, shoving Sherlock’s arm away.

Sherlock released, but he was scowling. “You were about to fall.”

“I was fine.”

“Tell me, what made you want to help us?”

“I already told you.”

“I must not have been listening.”

John felt rather than saw Sherlock’s gaze on him. “Victor. It was what Greg told me about Victor.”

“So you pitied a fellow human?”

“Yes.”

“How would you feel if I told you that he had been mere hours away from being turned? That he had wanted to be turned?”

“Greg already told me that.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s false surprise was sickening. “Then was it pity for another pet? My, what must you think of Eliza for having such a loyal pet in Kieran.”

“Kieran is disgusting. Even Greg said his situation is abnormal.”

“Quite true.” Sherlock hummed tunelessly for a moment. “So you knew Victor was all but a vampire. You understood, I take it, what it truly means to be a vampire’s pet. And still you, if even for a moment, considered a path of righteousness against another such monster.”

“Like you said, it was a moment.”

“Was it though?”

“Why do you keep asking me about this?”

“I’m curious. You fascinate me.”

John’s stomach twisted. “You’re going to be dead in a few hours.”

“True. But impending death was never a cure for curiosity, not in the best minds.”

John was saved from continuing the conversation by Greg’s return. He carried a loaf of bread in his mouth, which he handed to John after shifting. John was dumbfounded. “There’s resourceful, but this?”

“Portal, a bit that way.” He gestured behind him.

John lit up. “There is? We’ve got to be close to the city by now. I’m sure I could-”

“It’s about ten feet in the air, in a tree, and a couple feet tall. You’d have trouble getting through without the horse.”

“Oh.” John’s shoulders fell. “Well, thanks.” He ripped off a chunk of the stale bread and chewed it solemnly.

“Shall we?” Sherlock said and tapped his horse’s sides. They stayed at a slow walk until John had finished with the bread. It did make him feel better, not that he was going to admit that to Sherlock.

 

When John saw the familiar house through the barren trees, he turned on Sherlock. “What are we doing here? I thought-”

Sherlock held up a hand and stopped his horse.

John pulled back on his reins and looked around.

“Dismount,” Sherlock said in a hushed voice. “Very slowly.”

“W-”

“Do it.”

John was tempted to dig his heels in and flee, but a crawling sensation on the back of his neck made him do as Sherlock instructed. Greg padded over and shifted, then mounted John’s horse.

“Listen very carefully,” Sherlock said, giving slight gestures as spoke. “Walk in that direction until you can no longer see the house, not a shingle. Turn forty degrees counter clockwise and run.”

“Run?”

“It won’t take long for you to come upon the portal. But don’t make a noise until the house is from your sight.”

John looked from Sherlock’s back to Greg. “What’s this all about?”

“You have to trust-” Greg shook his head. “If you can’t trust him, at least trust me. Please, John. Go.”

He turned and started walking. When he first looked over his shoulder, Sherlock and Greg had started again for the house. He kept moving. His heart was racing, blood pounding in his ears. Every few minutes he looked back.

At last the house was nowhere to be seen. John turned as Sherlock instructed, as close as he could estimate, and broke into a sprint. His lungs were burning by the time he caught sight of the blackness that cleaved the air—and the horse standing in front of it.

He was attacked from the side, a body crashing into his and bringing him to the ground. He was pinned onto his stomach, arms wrenched behind his back. A familiar, chilling voice whispered in his ear, “You should have stood when I told you to.”


	6. Chapter 6

Kieran had him lashed and gagged before mounting his horse and leading a stumbling John along on the ground. Kieran didn’t speak to him, and John was fine with that. When they reached the house, there was a group waiting. Eliza fronted it, with Mycroft and Mary to one side, and Greg and Sherlock restrained by guards on the other.

John was made to walk forward, and Kieran shoved the back of his head with the flat of his boot. Unable to brace himself with his arms tied behind him, John crashed headfirst into the ground. More than one person cried his name.

“Enough,” Eliza snapped. “Mary, I am disappointed. You held such promise. And here we see you care about this wretch? This pitiful excuse for a human, let alone a pet? You must be so ashamed, Mycroft.”

Kieran grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and lifted him up onto his knees. Eliza began her approach.

“He’s not-” Greg started, but he was silenced by a guard’s knife against his throat.

Mycroft and Mary’s expressions both grew horrified. Mycroft took a tentative step toward Eliza. “Gregory was only doing as I asked. He was retrieving Sherlock-”

“Silence,” Eliza said, and the word dissolved into a hiss.

Mycroft stepped back and looked at Greg.

Eliza looked John up and down before she spoke again. “You were supposed to solve a problem.” She indicated Sherlock with her tone alone. “Instead you’ve caused more. I’m going to drain you right here in front of them, and then I’m going to break Gregory Lestrade’s neck, and finish solving these problems by cutting off Sherlock’s head—unless you give me one very good reason I shouldn’t.” She nodded to Kieran, and her pet removed the gag.

John’s head had been spinning this whole time, but, when he could finally speak, he knew what to say. At least, he hoped he did. “I was coming back.”

If they hadn’t before, every pair of eyes rested on him. Even Sherlock and Greg’s guards. Eliza looked conflicted between disgust and curiosity. It was an odd ability she shared with Sherlock. “What did you say?”

“I was coming back. Or rather, I had come back.” He looked past Eliza and met Sherlock’s gaze. “To my Master.”

“Such a drastic change in such little time. But if you had returned to Sherlock’s side, why were you running?”

John looked back at Eliza, meeting her pupil-engorged irises and a gaze that knew no limit of darkness. “If you knew you were about to be ambushed, wouldn’t you tell your pet to run?”

Eliza’s eyes shot up above John’s, no doubt meeting Kieran’s. When she looked back, though, she did not appeared swayed. “You still caused quite an upset. Pets have been put down before for less.”

“Did they tell you where I was?”

Eliza drew an eyebrow up.

“After I ran from Mycroft’s, did they tell you what happened to me?”

“No,” Eliza said slowly. “But you found your precious world.”

“Not at first. First, James Moriarty took me captive.”

The name was the first thing to really make Eliza hesitate.

So John kept at it. “He kept me locked up so he could find out everything about Sherlock, and I nearly died in the process. He left me to freeze to death in front of a portal, to mock me. It was only because of an acquaintance I had from being in the Circle that I survived.”

“But you didn’t come back once you had regained your health.” She was grasping at straws, though she was doing her best to hide it.

“No, because I was scared. I was scared of Moriarty, of you. I was still scared of Sherlock. But I wasn’t just scared of him. Didn’t Kieran go through that? Uncertainty?” Again, Eliza seemed to flinch inwardly and looked over John to her pet. “I was so confused, and there was no one who could explain things to me.” John swallowed, against the dryness in his throat as much as the fear still clinging to his chest. “But I was lucky. Mary found me. She tried to explain things to me, but even she didn’t know everything. She’s still young, isn’t she? But when Greg came to talk to me, he made everything so clear! And I knew I had to come back. I had to help find Sherlock and make things right with you. Because he is my Master, and what’s a pet without their Master?”

Eliza was quiet for a long time. She alternated between staring at Kieran and quickly looking John over, perhaps for signs of deceit. “Release him,” she said. “Let them go.”

Kieran untied John’s bonds. As soon as he was free, he ran to Sherlock and pressed his head to Sherlock’s chest. Slowly, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s back.

“Charming,” Eliza muttered. “However, we still have the problem of James Moriarty to deal with.”

Everyone, with the exception of the two guards, filtered inside. The drawing room did not have enough seats to accommodate them all, even discounting Kieran and John, so Greg and Mary stood behind the sofa on which Mycroft and Sherlock sat, Eliza across from them.

John settled on the floor beside Sherlock, leaning slightly into his legs. Kieran was watching him closely, but John pretended to pay no mind.

“What can you tell us about your time with James?” Eliza prompted.

John looked up at Sherlock, who gave him a little nod, before John turned to Eliza. “He attempted to win me over with kindness first. Then he began to starve me.” He let his voice hitch and lowered his gaze. “I’m afraid I was weak.”

“What did you tell him?” There was an anxiousness hidden in Eliza’s collected demeanour.

“I had seen Sherlock at work on something, dissecting something I think. At the time, I thought it might be an animal. A regular wolf or a bear. I realised, too late, after I told Moriarty, that it must have been a werewolf. That was when he went insane. He locked me up and didn’t come back for—I don’t know how long. I wasn’t sure if I was going to starve or freeze to death first.” He gave a shudder and turned his face into Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock ran a gentle hand through his hair.

“Is that all?”

John gave a shaky nod. “When he did return, it was only to take me away and leave me at the portal.”

“I see. And did he act alone?”

John paused. He hadn’t thought much about the one who had knocked him unconscious, the one who actually carried him out of his once gilded cage. It was likely the same person.

“Answer me.”

“He was the only one I clearly remember, the only one I talked to. But I think there was another with him. I think he called him Seb.”

The room went instantly tense. Sherlock’s hand stilled on John’s head. When he looked up, he saw Sherlock and Eliza staring at each other.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, still matching Eliza’s gaze. “Can you be absolutely certain the other man was a werewolf?”

“No. I never saw him. He was the one that carried me, not Moriarty. That’s all I know.”

“It would be impossible,” Mycroft interrupted.

“If it were him,” Eliza said. “This needs to be looked into more closely.” She immediately held up a hand to Sherlock. “Not you. I believe you and John have some time to make up, do you not?”

Sherlock gave a stiff nod. “Thank you.”

Eliza’s gaze moved up and past the sofa. “Mary.”

Mycroft rushed to intercept the decision, “She’s never gone that deep into their territory.”

“No, she has not. She has shown quite a bit of promise, though. Well, child?”

“Anything to be of service,” Mary replied.

John heard the mild strain in her voice.

Eliza ignored it. “Good. Then we three will return to the city.” She indicated herself, Mycroft, and Mary. Kieran was like an extension, standing precisely when she did.

John watched them go. He caught Mary’s eye and gave her a slight nod. As he started to look away, he saw Mycroft looking over his shoulder. John followed his gaze to Greg, who was staring back just as miserable. Despite everything they had put him through, John felt a pang for them. All that, and they couldn’t even say goodbye to one another properly.

As soon as Eliza was out of the house, John leapt to his feet and began stretching the kinks in his neck and arms. Kieran had done a number on him when he tied him up.

“Go to bed,” Sherlock said, giving him a cursory look.

“Is that an order, Master?” John said bitterly.

“You’re exhausted, physically and mentally. The intelligent decision would be to rest.”

Greg put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s right.” Then he added pointedly, “We’re all tired.”

Sherlock ignored him.

“Go on,” Greg urged John more gently.

“Wait.” Sherlock pulled something from his coat pocket and dropped it into John’s hand. “You will need this, for the duration of your stay.”

John slipped the chain on slowly. It felt far heavier than it was.

He went upstairs and found his room exactly as he had left it, which, to be fair, hadn’t been much different than how he had found it when he first arrived. He didn’t even bother taking off more than his boots and his coat before crawling under the thick layers of blankets.


	7. Chapter 7

The sun was setting when John woke up. He ached from the neck down, but at least he was well-rested and warm. His mind drifted to thoughts of Wiggins and Toby, and he felt a twist of guilt. He hadn’t so much as left a note. He would have to send one. Greg would probably be willing to scribe it for him, seeing as he was the one who dragged John off.

John stayed in bed until the stiffness in his limbs became too much. He found his own clothes in the chest and changed into something simple and warm, though the room was surprisingly not frigid. He looked over and realised the fire was lit.

He took the stairs two at a time and burst into the kitchen. Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson was standing over the stove cooking up breakfast.

Before she could even say hello, John gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight. When he released her, she patted his arm. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, and he meant it.

“Same goes for you, young man. Food’s almost ready. Sit down.” It didn’t sound like a command from a superior. More like from one’s mother.

John grinned to himself and sat at his old seat. A little while later, Greg joined him. He actually looked rested himself. “Sherlock run off in the night?”

“Probably.” Greg smiled.

When Mrs. Hudson joined them with their food, John’s attention caught on the empty end of the table, where the two maids always sat and chatted quietly between themselves. He was sharply reminded of what Sherlock had done, and that he had done it many times in the past.

“Eat, dear,” Mrs. Hudson urged softly, and he obliged.

When they finished, John asked Greg if Sherlock was in the cave. “I think so.”

John held out his hand for the key.

Greg passed it to him cautiously. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

John thanked him and said nothing else.

He made it all the way up the narrow stairs in Sherlock’s chambers before hesitating. He knocked first.

Sherlock opened the door. “I thought you might come up here,” he said, and he stepped aside to let John in.

The large room didn’t look much different from the last time John was there, not from what he could tell. The exception was the lack of a werewolf corpse on the dissection table in the far corner.

As for the room’s occupant, he look strung out, not settling his eyes in any one place. Sometimes he would look at John, but mostly he looked around John.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock snapped. He turned around and marched over to one of the cluttered chairs, snatching up his violin on the way. When he reached the chair, he dumped it of its contents, set it down with a loud thump, and threw himself into it. He put his bow to his violin and began playing.

John watched the entire thing with fascination rather than fear. He looked around and found a stool relatively unladen. He moved the few items onto the nearest surface and picked up the stool. He set it down in front of Sherlock’s chair and perched on it.

After a moment of John watching him, the music stopped and Sherlock dropped his violin from under his chin. “What?”

“You’re… agitated.”

“Oh, aren’t you so clever and observant,” Sherlock snapped.

“What is it? It’s not—You’re not hungry, are you?”

“No,” Sherlock scoffed. “Would you be sitting there unmolested if I was?”

“Fair enough. Is it Moriarty?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and locked onto John.

“Right, so him.”

“No,” Sherlock seethed.

“Of course not.” John rolled his eyes.

“It’s not the damned mongrel!” Sherlock jumped to his feet and abandoned his violin to his chair. He walked over to one of the grand windows and stood with his back to the room.

John frowned in thought. “The other one then? Seb?”

Sherlock’s back went rigid.

“Who is he?”

“Filth,” Sherlock spat. “Cowardice and filth.”

“Helpful. Look, I’m in this, aren’t I? Should I at least know exactly what I’m in?”

Sherlock turned and gave him a measured onceover. “You’ve changed.”

“What?”

“You used to be… such a timid thing.” He crossed the room with quick, quiet steps. He took hold of John’s chin lightly. “What made you change?”

John shoved his hand away. “I don’t know. Almost dying a few times in a matter of months?”

“I don’t scare you anymore, do I?”

“No.” It was true. John didn’t have a death wish, but anyone could deal out death. As for the vampire in front of him, well, he was still intimidating, but John was no longer frightened of him.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed.

“Who’s Seb?”

Sherlock’s expression turned instantly to disgust and he stepped back. “He was one of your kind once. Not just a human; a Hunter. One that gave us plenty of trouble. But he was apprehended. He should have been executed on the spot. Instead, some fool wanted to prove anyone could be broken, even Sebastian Moran.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think?” Sherlock snapped.

John shrugged. “I honestly haven’t got the faintest.”

“Mycroft, that’s who! Bloody imbecile.”

“So, what, Mycroft—Was he his pet?”

“No. Mycroft would never have treated a pet that way. He was simply a prisoner, one Mycroft was determined to make an example of.”

“And he escaped?”

Sherlock let loose a terrifying laugh, all teeth and manic eyes. “Escape? If only he had escaped! No, he broke. He broke and he begged. And he didn’t just beg for his life. He begged to be turned.”

John grimaced. “Mycroft turned him?”

“Yes. He turned him and paraded him out for everyone to see. ‘Here, here is what has become of Sebastian Moran. Once out for our blood, now he shares it.’ The fool.”

“I take it Sebastian didn’t remain complacent?”

“He ran the first chance that opened to him. We’ve heard little of him since, and that was ten years ago. Occasionally a body would show up, one that was clearly a message, one that let us know he was still out there, waiting for his moment to exact revenge. We weren’t worried, not with him acting alone. He had Mycroft’s blood in him; we all knew that scent, and he couldn’t surprise us.”

John took a deep breath. “And now he’s working with Moriarty.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “James would have made him think that, at the start. But by now, it should be clear to Moran that no one works with James. They only work for him.”

“It doesn’t sound like Moran’s one to take kindly to that.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s beside himself with rage. But he’s likely to prioritise his revenge on Mycroft first. He’s probably convinced himself he can deal with James after. What he won’t know yet is that he signed his death sentence the second he agreed to whatever James offered him.” Sherlock returned to his seat, setting his violin aside. He was still sulking, though.

John studied him before stating, “You’re angry. You want to be where Mary is right now, don’t you?”

“She’s still inexperienced.”

“And you have a personal vendetta against Moriarty.”

Sherlock glared at him.

John took a sharp breath before plunging in, “Greg really did tell me everything. Yes, everything. Not just about Victor. About you asking Mycroft to capture me. Everything.”

“Remind me to strangle Lestrade later,” Sherlock muttered. Then he straightened up in his chair. “And how have you reacted to your newfound knowledge?”

“I don’t understand it. But,” he said, holding a hand up before Sherlock could interrupt. “I’m not here to talk about your twisted fascination with me. Until this is over and I’m on my way out of this world for good, you and I have an act to keep up.”

“Yes, you were quite the actor yesterday.”

“Good. But, from everything I’ve gathered, Eliza and Mycroft will probably be able to tell whether or not you’re feeding from me.”

Sherlock gave a slow nod.

“And we don’t need you hitting the Hunger. Again.” John inhaled and let it out slow. “So here’s the deal. You feed every two days, but you take less than you used to. And you take from here.” He pushed his sleeve up to expose his forearm. “No more of that—whatever that was.” He pulled his sleeve down. “And you only come into my room from the hall, and you knock. Alright?”

Sherlock pressed his hands together at his fingertips and the heels of his palms. He rested his fingers against his mouth for a moment. “And if I do not abide by these ordinances?”

“I leave, and none of what happens after that is on my shoulders.”

“Very well.”

John hadn’t expected Sherlock to agree so readily, but it was a relief. He nodded and stepped off the stool.

“Wait.” Sherlock got to his feet and dashed across the room. “Mary was teaching you to read, correct?”

“Latin mostly, yes.”

“Good.” He returned to John with several volumes and thrust them into John’s arms.

“I’m not very-”

“Prioritise the first two.”

John looked at the title on the top of the pile. “De Motu Cordis—” he peered closely at the smaller subtitle “—Intra Lamiam.” He pointed to the last word and gave Sherlock a quizzical look.

“On the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Vampires.”

John looked back at the text. “You want me to study vampire anatomy?”

“And werewolf, but start with the vampire texts. Enquire if you come across any difficulties.”

“Why?”

Sherlock gazed at him in a way he never had before, a way John had no idea how to read. “You are likely to face difficulties in the near future. Some of those will be from Sebastian Moran, and some from James Moriarty. Your physical strength is trivial against either, but knowing their physical weaknesses could keep you alive.”

 

The night following John and Sherlock’s talk, there was a knock at the front door. John was headed to answer it when he found Greg had beat him to it. He’d never known Greg to answer the door. The reason soon became clear, though.

Greg reached through the threshold and pulled inside a very weary looking Mary. He hugged her close, and she returned his affection in kind. John just barely made out her whispering, “Papa.”

John waited as unobtrusively by the stairs as he could. When the embrace ended, Greg kept his hands on Mary’s shoulders. “You’re alright?”

“Fine, I’m fine. Tired, but safe and sound. I need to speak with Sherlock.”

“I’ll fetch him,” John said.

Mary and Greg both looked surprised to find him standing there, and at his words.

He dashed up the stairs and only slowed when he was past his own room. He wanted to give the two a little extra time; he had a feeling it would be fleeting.

When John knocked at the cave door this time, Sherlock called him in. He was sitting at one of the many desks, hunched over some parchment or another.

“Mary’s here.”

Sherlock went from sitting to running down the stairs before John could blink. John followed at a hurried but far less frantic pace.

In the drawing room, Mary explained what information she had gathered, already reported back to Eliza and Mycroft, and where things stood with Moriarty and the others.

“Others?” John piped up, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.

“Other werewolves,” Mary explained. “Moriarty isn’t well-liked among his kin, but he’s still one of them. They’re likely to react to whatever happens to him.”

“They probably don’t know about his association with Moran,” Sherlock said.

“No, I don’t think they do.”

John chewed his lip a moment before saying, “What would they do if they did know?”

Mary shrugged, and Greg looked just as ignorant.

But Sherlock was on his feet. “Brilliant!”

“Pardon?” Greg said.

Sherlock ignored him and clasped John’s shoulders. “Absolutely brilliant.”

John politely but forcefully pushed his hands away. “What is?”

“You. If the packs know James is in conference with a vampire, even if that vampire is Sebastian Moran, they may very well destroy him themselves.”

“Would they?” Mary sounded hopeful. “Would they really kill one of their own kind for that?”

“Of course they would. So would we,” he concluded firmly. “If the situation was reversed.”

John felt suddenly cold down to his bones. He excused himself and went up to his room.

 

Hours after the meeting, John was lounging on the window bench, trying to make sense of the texts Sherlock had given him, when there was a knock on his door. “Yeah,” he called, putting aside the book with some relief.

Mary slipped in and closed the door behind her.

John stood. “Alright?”

Mary lunged. She took John’s face in her hands and surged upward, pressing her mouth against his and kissing him with such ferocity, John pulled away instantly to breathe as much as from the shock.

“What,” he started, but he was too dumb to form anything more coherent.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since, well, for a bit now.” She didn’t look nearly as sheepish as she sounded. She was still watching John with a sort of hunger he found unsettling, but also arousing.

“Mary, I appreciate the, uh, sentiment, but-”

“John, I think I love you. I truly do. I don’t know seeing as I’ve not exactly felt this way before. But, oh, John! I want you. No, not like that.” She giggled at John’s growing frown. She lifted his chin and kissed him again, though this one was gentle and brief. “Like this. I want you like this. And I want you to want me like this.”

John pulled her hands away from his face. “Mary, I don’t think we should.”

Mary sighed. “Don’t make excuses, John. If you don’t share my feelings, then say so.” She scowled. “It’s because I am what I am, isn’t it?”

John didn’t dare say yes, but it seemed Mary could read him. Or maybe she was gleaning his thoughts. He wondered vaguely if there was away to shut up one’s own mind.

“I thought you were better than that now. You came back, and you stood up for Uncle and Sherlock. You were wonderful. I thought you had changed.” She twisted her hands out of John’s. “But you can’t even see past my father’s blood. Do you know how many humans I’ve killed, John? None.”

“And how many have you tasted?” John snapped.

“None that weren’t willing,” Mary shouted back at him.

“Oh, I’m sure, they just begged to be bitten.”

“Yes,” she snapped. “Each and every one of them was loyal to my father, and more than happy to give me their blood.”

“Loyal,” John seethed. “Loyal or dead, right?

“Loyal and honest! Unlike you.” She snatched up the book form the bench. “I taught you to read, but you still think of me as an animal.” She threw it on the ground. “I have never fed on the unwilling, John. Even my father can’t say that much.”

John’s hand went unconsciously to his forearm, where Sherlock’s teeth had pierced his skin only hours earlier, not long before Mary arrived. He was giving his blood willingly. To help Mary and the others no less. Could he really doubt others would be willing for similar reasons, for similar people? Without being twisted creatures like Kieran?

“What’s wrong?” Mary said quietly, voice full of concern. She dropped her gaze to his hand. “You’re hurt.”

“No.” John dropped his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

His words took Mary completely by surprise. “What?”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t assume every human is unwilling. I’ve seen enough—I’ve heard enough to know that.” He sat down on the edge of his bed.

Mary dropped down beside him. “I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that.”

“It wasn’t- I didn’t mind, not entirely.” John’s face went instantly hot.

“Do you like me, John?”

“You’re beautiful and intelligent and-”

“John, please. Just answer me straight.”

He looked over and saw Mary watching him earnestly. “I don’t know. Maybe?” He hadn’t considered it, but now that the thought was in his mind, he couldn’t get rid of it. _Could I love someone half-witch, half-vampire?_ Mary was unlike anyone he had ever met, man or woman, human or not, in all the best ways. He’d spent so many years of his life hating these people, not even knowing who they were. Now he knew who they were.

Mary stroked his cheek. “If you figure it out, let me know.” She stood, but John grabbed her hand.

“Kiss me again?” He pulled her back toward him.

Mary smiled and leaned over him. She drew him to her, pressing her lips against his. This time, he reciprocated. Mary lowered herself back to the bed beside him, and he reached out to take her waist in his hand, bringing the other to her neck.

When he pulled back, it was to breathe. He leaned forward and rested his brow against hers. “I could do a lot worse than to fall in love with you.”

She kissed him again, this one as passionate as her first, but with a far more willing recipient. She moved his second hand so both were on her waist and began unfastening her waistcoat.

John’s hands left her sides and began fighting blindly with the buttons of her riding breeches. Despite the fewer obstacles he had, Mary had finished with and discarded her waistcoat before John had undone the last button. Her hands dove for his own breeches, flicking them open with grace and speed, relieving some of the pressure he had begun to feel there.

And suddenly her hand was on him, plunged under breeches and drawers alike. He gasped, fingers clenching around the flap of leather in his hand. He met Mary’s gaze and found her smiling at him. She leaned in to capture his mouth, at the same time gently rubbing him fuller and harder.

When he could no longer take it, he abandoned Mary’s clothes to discard his bottoms entirely. Mary released him and followed his lead. He pulled off his shirt before turning to her waistcoat. Pushing it past her shoulders, there was a small disappointment to find a shirt beneath. But that was easily done away with, and in another moment they were both bared before each other in full.

John pressed his palm against the slant of her shoulder, eyes drinking in her white neck, breasts, stomach. She pressed a finger under his chin and lifted his head up. “Well?” she said with a coy smile.

“I already told you you’re beautiful.” He grinned and she replied with a soft laugh.

Then she took him by the shoulders and laid him out on the bed. She pressed her finger to his lips when he began to say something, and then kissed him into silence. As she kissed, she lifted one leg to his other side and straddled him at the hips.

She bit his lip lightly before she sat up, took him in hand, and bore down on him with the most exquisite look of half-lidded pleasure. John watched enraptured, breath shallow.

Mary smiled down at him, strands of auburn fall around her face. She held out her hand and he gave her his. She took his thumb and pulled it to her clit. Then she braced her hands on his thighs and began to move. 

She left John with very little to do, which was for the best. His head was fogged with arousal and awe at the woman undulating on his cock. But as she pushed herself onto him again and again, his body began to move without much need for conscious thought. He tilted his hips and, with his free hand, grabbed her waist. He pulled and she folded forward over him, crashing her mouth into his, never missing a beat.

He turned the hand at her groin for better mobility and began adding to the friction her own motions were creating. She moaned loud into his mouth, and he responded in kind, digging his other hand into her back and pulling his knees up to push deeper into her.

When he came, she silenced his mouth with her own and rode him through it, bearing down harder and faster. She broke away from his mouth and craned down to bite his shoulder. Hard, hard enough to bruise. But her teeth never broke skin. John’s body jerked with surprise, hips lurching up as she impaled herself on him, orgasm shooting through her before his cock had even stopped twitching from his own climax.

As the shaking in their limbs began to subside, she pressed gentle kisses to the bite before lifting herself up enough for John’s cock to slip out. As soon as it was freed, she collapsed on top of him.

John pulled her face away from his shoulder and kissed her.

“Sorry,” she murmured against his lips. “I should have warned you.”

“It’s alright,” he replied, voice as quiet and languid as hers.

“I love doing that right before.” She smiled into the next kiss.

John combed his fingers through her tangled hair. “It was certainly… something.”

She laughed and rolled onto the mattress beside him, pulling his arms around her and closing her eyes.

John wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with her there, but uncertainty nagged at him. “Mary-”

“Sh,” she interrupted and pressed a finger to his mouth. “Sleep.”

“But if Sherlock-”

Mary opened her eyes enough to meet his. Even half-lidded, the pair of green-rimmed irises were intense. “Are you really his pet?”

“No,” John snapped. He at once regretted his tone and gave her an apologetic look.

“Then I don’t give a damn what he knows or thinks about us.” Her lids fell shut once more and she nudged closer to John. “Sleep.”

John wrapped Mary tight in his arms and she nuzzled her face into his neck, sighing happily. For a little while after she fell asleep, John kept watching the door to Sherlock’s room. Eventually, though, he began to relax, and kissed the top of Mary’s head before letting himself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Received some lovely fanart for TWBF, which you can check out [here](http://lockedin221b.tumblr.com/post/65986400407/kissesjohnlockandgrell-not-fond-of-the-font-but)!


End file.
